


So close and still so far

by Mira_Mirai



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Canon Compliant, Established Relationship, Fluff, Happy Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Romance, US Open 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 06:52:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15966998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Mirai/pseuds/Mira_Mirai
Summary: Roger Federer disliked a bunch of things. But, hate? Hate, he only truly hated two things. Jellyfish and having to watch Rafa from afar.Or: Roger hates having to stay behind while Rafa is playing and after the 2018 US Open semis he decides to reevaluate and do something about it.(I really, really suck at summaries)





	So close and still so far

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So I thought we all needed a bit of a pick-me-up after the disastrous US Open (Though Rafa played some incredible tennis). So I said to myself: I’m going to write something cute and fluffy and sweet… And… yeah, that’s not exactly what ended up happening. BUT! It ends nice and cute and fluffy, I promise, but there’s some angst first (sorry, I couldn’t help myself). Also, it was supposed to be short. Again, sorry.  
> Anyway, I hope you like it. The title of the story comes from the song So Close from the film Enchanted (Yes, I’m a proud Disney fanatic).
> 
> Also, English is not my first language and I don't have a beta, so the many mistakes you'll see are my own.

Roger Federer disliked a bunch of things: tardy people, mint, strong cologne, Kyrgios’ antics, crowded lifts, long commercial breaks during films, matching stripes and plaid, loud chewing and another couple of hundred things. It was quite normal. Everyone disliked some things.

But, hate? Hate, he only truly hated two things. Jellyfish and having to watch Rafa from afar.

The jellyfish thing he could manage easily enough: when there were jellyfish on the water, he would get out. Easy peasy. Done.

The Rafa thing was infinitely more complicated. And it had not solution either.

He couldn’t go to Rafa’s box to cheer for him in his matches, he had to stay in the hotel. Sometimes he would risk it and watch from the player’s lounge but only if it was an easy match. That way he could watch with a normal amount of interest and not betray his secret. But, of course, all the quarters, semis and finals… Or early rounds against tough opponents, those he had to do in private. Because he could never hide what he was feeling when watching Rafa. If people saw him pace, curse, grab and throw stuff, sweat and pull his hair, they would know. They would know that Rafa was way more than a friend on the tour and his biggest rival.

They would know Rafa was his love.

And they couldn’t know.

No one could.

That’s why he loved their finals. Even the many he lost. Because then, he could be there. He still couldn’t show it, even though he knew he already showed much more than he should. But at least he was there.

But in the landscape of both their careers, those moments were rare gems, exceptions.

And all those other times, all of those Slams finals that he wasn’t facing Rafa, he was never there. And it killed him.

It killed him in the 2010 US Open when Rafa, at just 24, completed his Career Grand Slam, and Roger wasn’t there to celebrate with him.

It killed him in the 2012 Australian Open when Rafa fought and lost in the longest and most gruelling match he’d ever seen, and he wasn’t there to hold him as he faded from exhaustion.

But nothing killed him like the 2014 Australian final, when Rafa got hurt and he endured. He was playing in pain. So much pain. Roger could see, even from afar, even from a screen, he could see. And he wasn’t there to support him.

Roger felt so much hatred and sorrow at that moment, he told himself: not ever again.

But he didn’t really mean it…

Because four years later, in 2018, and once more in freaking Australia, he had to watch Rafa endure in pain for hours, until he finally retired in the fifth set against Čilić.

So close Rafa had been from victory, so far Roger had been from him.

That night, he hated Rafa’s hip muscle for breaking, hated Čilić for playing him, hated the Slams for being best of five, hated this tournament for existing, hated Rod Laver Arena for hosting it, and even hated Rod Laver for giving it its name, but, most of all, he hated himself for not being there. Once again.

But.

Not again. Not ever again. He promised.

His promise didn’t mean much either…

Because the US Open came along. Roger felt wrong from day one. It wasn’t even the heat, although it didn’t help. From the moment he set foot on Flushing Meadows, he knew that he wasn’t going to do well.

And he didn’t.

But Rafa… Rafa was doing what Rafa did best.

Fighting until the end, beating the odds, defeating great players, producing amazing tennis, winning.

And Roger was hoping for it: Rafa’s 18th.

But, most of all, he was yearning for more of Rafa’s battles. Khachanov, Basilashvili, Thiem had been amazing... He could hardly wait for Rafa’s fight with Del Potro. That was clash of the titans. And Roger was vibrating with excitement.

The match started a bit rocky, but it got better. Then, he saw it. When they were 4-3 in the first set, Rafa looked at his box, found Carlos’ eyes, mouthed a few words and quickly looked down.

Looked down at his right knee.

Roger burst into tears without realizing it.

Because he knew. He knew it was over. Even though it wasn’t. No yet.

Now, he had to brace himself to witness Rafa play in pain, Rafa try in pain, Rafa fight in pain, Rafa hate his body in pain.

He had to watch Rafa call the physio. Rafa put on the tape. Rafa cut off the tape. Rafa call the doctor again.

But the worst was seeing Rafa hit his own knee with the water bottle.

And Roger hated Rafa’s knee and the birth defect on his heel.

Again, for the hundredth time, Rafa’s body was denying him, rejecting him, taking the fight away from him.

And he cursed Juan Martín for seeing Rafa’s pain and using it. He rationally knew the man was doing what he had to do but, still, Roger thought that if he had the Argentinian before him, he would punch him until his knuckles bled.

Time slowed around Roger, prolonging his agony. Halfway through the second set, Rafa wasn’t even running anymore. And Roger prayed, pleaded, begged to the Rafa on the screen to put an end to it.

And when the set was finished, but not before, Rafa finally said 'enough'.

And Roger cried again. This time though, it was tears of relief.

Then the hate came again. And he rushed to the bathroom to see himself in the mirror. To see if, once more, he’d have the guts to lie and promise and say ‘never again’, and then do nothing.

But that was not what he saw.

He saw pain in sunken bloodshot eyes, he saw despair in lips shut so tight they were white. He saw misery. And he felt the hate grow inside of him.

But, underneath all that ugliness, he saw the will to fight. He saw the man who had rewritten all the tennis history books. And that man wasn’t made of hate.

And that man wouldn’t stay in hate.

He took his clothes off and got into the shower. The water was boiling hot, like New York, but that burning in his skin was cleansing him, was making him shed the layer of vile covering him.

He stood under the water far longer than ever before. And when he came out, he was dizzy, but he was free of hate.

He was also clear-headed. He knew what he was going to do this time. It was not going to be like all the others.

He would not school his expression so Rafa didn’t see the pity he despised on it. He would not try to distract him or make silly jokes to avoid the elephant in the room. He would not hold him a bit too tight. He would not pretend he didn’t hear him crying against the pillow. He would not do any of that.

He got dressed and then went to his suitcase.

After, he just sat and waited. But, for once, he didn’t mind.

It was an hour and a half before the door of the suite opened. When he heard the click of the key card, Roger rose to his feet to go meet Rafa.

His love walked inside, freshly showered, dragging his feet and still carrying his own bags. He was looking at the floor and only when he noticed Roger’s shoes did he raise his face.

He put on an expression that Roger knew well, but not many others did. It was open sadness with a dash of resignation. The resignation Rafa let other people see. The sadness, no. But Roger wasn’t people, Roger was Rafa’s partner.

He got to him and softly put his hands on the bags handles to make Rafa drop them, and then he gathered the Spaniard in his arms. Rafa held onto Roger’s shirt and let his head rest on Roger’s shoulder.

They stood like that for a long time.

Roger, eventually, opened his mouth. “Rafa…”

Rafa broke the embrace. “I know what you gonna say, Rogi.”

Roger grinned big. “I bet you whatever you want that you don’t know.”

Rafa rose an eyebrow, there was a tiny glint of a twinkle in his eye “Okay.” He smiled. “We bet Tour Finals. If I am right, you let me win in London.”

A laugh escaped Roger’s mouth. “Sure. I’ll throw in Shanghai as well.”

Rafa raised the other eyebrow.

“Okay, Rogi.” He went to sit on the bed. “I’m ready to hear this thing.”

It was kind of perfect that Rafa had decided to sit there. Roger went to stand in front of him and then dropped on one knee. “Rafa, will you marry me?”

Rafa’s condescending smile disappeared in a flash, only confusion remained “What?”

Roger picked up Rafa’s right hand and intertwined their fingers. “I want you to marry me, Rafa.”

“We can’t” whispered Rafa.

Roger forwent his smile, he needed Rafa to see he was serious. Dead serious. “No, Rafa. They said we couldn’t. And we listened. But we have been listening long enough. I don’t want to wait anymore.”

Rafa shook his head, dismissingly, but caressed Roger’s hair with his left taped hand. He looked at Roger with such affection. “Roger, I’m sorry. I know… when I hurt on court, it’s very hard for you. But, it’s not… necessary to say this, okay? I know you love me. It’s okay.”

Roger dropped his other knee on the ground and put both of his hands on Rafa’s legs. He leaned up to show Rafa his face completely. “No, it’s not okay, Raf. And it’s not just the injuries. It’s the victories too. It’s the struggle. I want to be there to cheer for you when you play Novak or Delpo or Stan. I want you to be able to look up at the box and see my eyes, crazy in love, cheering for you. Every single ball of every single match.” He smiled then “If you get the 12th French next year, I want to be there. And when you climb on the box to celebrate, I want you to hug me and kiss me.” He heard Rafa’s breath catch on his throat. He rose a hand to put on his lover’s neck “Damn it, Rafa. We’ve been together for eleven years and the only victories we could ever celebrate together were the ones we had to take from one another.” Roger let out a long and painful sigh. “I wasn’t there for your Gold in Beijing, and you weren’t there for mine either. You weren’t there when I finally got the French and I wasn’t there when you got the US Open. No Davis Cups, no Number Ones. No nothing.”

Roger’s knees were starting to hurt but there was no moving him or stopping him. “We always had to wait for hours in the hotel. I always had to stay behind and watch you from afar. And the same for you…”

His other hand also went to Rafa’s neck and Rafa, unconsciously, leaned forward to get close to Roger.  “The injuries… yes, those I hate the most. Because I’m your life partner and I’m not there when you are suffering but… it’s more than that. Way more.” He let one hand slide down until it was on top of Rafa’s heart. “Do you know the moment of my life that I’ve been the happiest? The moment that is the brightest, the moment that I felt the most complete?”

Rafa shook his head again, but, this time it was a slow and unsure movement.

Roger fixed his eyes on Rafa’s. “Last year, the Laver Cup. The last match… I won, and you came running to me and you jumped into my arms. And I saw your pride and your joy, and I saw that I was the cause of your happiness and I died for a second, Rafa. I was so happy I died for a second.” Rafa’s eyes filled with tears and Roger was sure his were probably the same. “Then, the others came around and while they were congratulating me I thought: So this is what it feels like… to have your partner by your side. And, for a minute, I was sad. Because I knew this was all we were ever going to get.”

One traitor tear came running through Rafa’s cheek and Roger caught it with his fingers. “And we deserve more, Rafa. We deserve everything. We’ve done enough. For tennis, for sport, for our families, for our teams, for our countries. We’ve done more than enough. I don’t want to wait any longer. I don’t want to feel hate while I watch you from far away. I want to feel love while being by your side.”

Another tear fell but Roger let it go, because Rafa was smiling. “What do you say?” he pressed.

Rafa let out a long breath that Roger felt on his skin. “Roger… is… yes. I want this. Yes. So much. But…”

“But… nothing.” Roger interrupted.

Rafa tried again. “But… Meri, Mirka… the children… how… people…”

Roger went back to holding Rafa’s legs. “We’ll explain. She is my best friend, she wanted to help me. And she wanted children, I wanted children. Meri is your best friend, she wanted to help you.”

“They will be angry… They say we lie.”

Roger pressed his fingers onto Rafa’s strong muscles. “They made us lie, Rafa. Would we have chosen this for ourselves? Would we have chosen the secrets and the covers and the lies?”

“No.” Rafa whispered after a few seconds.

“No. They made us. So fuck them if they are angry. They don’t have any right to be. It’s our life, Rafa.”

Rafa dropped his head onto his chest so Roger couldn’t really see his expression. “You’re right.”

Roger was shocked. “I am?”

Rafa looked up and smiled at him. “Yes.”

Roger paused for a second, gathering his thoughts. “Yes, I am right? Or, yes, you’ll marry me?”

The smile got a tiny bit larger. “Yes… you are right.”

Roger felt his heart break. Then Rafa slid down the bed until he was kneeling in front of him, their positions mirrored. He took Roger’s face in his hands. “And yes… I will marry you.”

Roger lost his ability to speak, but luckily not his ability to kiss. His mouth and Rafa’s found each other and refused to let go.

Kissing Rafa was always like going home. Roger couldn’t really put it any other way. And it had been like that from the first kiss. He remembered every detail. Walking into the locker room at the All England Club, his fifth Wimbledon trophy in hand. And seeing Rafa, by the corner, quietly crying. He looked up when he heard Roger and that’s when Roger realized that Rafael Nadal was the most beautiful being he had ever seen in his life. He left the cup and went to him, to kiss him. He knew he had to. And when their lips touched, Roger was sure. They belonged together.

That feeling had never gone away with time passing, it had only grown stronger. Every tiny movement of lips, every soft flicker of tongue was a confirmation that Roger didn’t really need.

His left hand let go of Rafa’s back to sneak into his own back pocket. He broke the kiss and put his open palm in front of Rafa. A platinum band sat on it. On the inside two Rs intertwined.

Rafa let out a gasp while Roger put the engagement ring on Rafa’s right hand finger. Rafa was looking at it like it was something alien. “How can you have ring already?”

Roger smiled. “Do you like it?”

Rafa tilted his head to the side. “Yes. But, how?”

“I’ve had it for a while…” Roger tried to sound nonchalant.

“How long is while?” Apparently, he hadn’t succeeded.

Roger bit his lip. “Since the final in Australia.”

“2017 Australia? You have ring for a year and half?”

Roger bit a little harder. “No. Not that Australia.”

Rafa raised his left eyebrow. “What?” He laughed. Roger smirked, although his cheeks were burning. “We only have two finals in Australia”, Rafa explained.

Roger giggled. “Oh, I’m well aware of that.”

Rafa made that face. The face he made every time he was trying to understand Andy and his Scottish accent. “So… if not… last year… you mean…”

“Yeah…”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“Yeah.”

There was a dramatic pause.

“2009?”

“2009.” Roger confirmed.

Rafa’s hands started doing crazy things, much like they did when he was arguing with his mother in Mallorquín. “2009! You crazy Roger! Impossible! You don’t have ring for nine years!” Rafa laughed. Roger didn’t. And Rafa stopped. “You have ring for nine years?”

Roger made clacking noise with his tongue. “Technically it’s nine years and eight months. I bought it the day after the final in a tiny store in Melbourne.”

“Why?”

It was Roger’s turn to be confused. “Why? Because I wanted to marry you.”

“Ten years ago?” Rafa sounded so astounded that Roger didn’t know if he should laugh or be offended.

“What? When did you want to marry me, Raf?”

Rafa shrugged “I don’t know. You ask five minutes ago.”

Roger Federer liked lots and lots of things, way more than he disliked: Sunrises, the smell of new books, Clint Eastwood films, aces, tweeners, trophies, chestnut sauce, New York, London, Paris, football and Japanese food... to name a few. He also loved, much more than he hated. His children, his family, Mirka, his friends, his sport… And, of course, his Rafa. He loved all of Rafa. His mind, his heart, his body. His strength and his weakness. His humour and his kindness. And, of course, his innate ability to render Roger speechless.

“Are you kidding?” Asked Roger after a long time. Rafa just showed him his tongue. “You’re asking for trouble, Rafaito.”

Rafa went back to the bed and laid on it. Jacket, shoes and all.

“No. Roger, I ask you treat me very kind. You have to, no? I’m your engaged.”

When Roger was with Rafa, he ended up being speechless. Multiple times... a day.

He almost tripped on his way to the bed.

 

\---R&R---

 

One year later, Roger and Rafa were in New York again. Newlyweds, celebrating in Flushing Meadows.

But still, Roger couldn’t sit in Rafa’s box to cheer for him.... because he was on court, with Rafa, in their first ever final as a married couple, which also happened to be their first ever encounter in the US Open. It was almost too good to be true.

People didn’t know, although many guessed, that this would also be their last final ever. Roger was retiring, but there was not a dash of sadness in his heart. He now truly had it all.

His serve would kick off the match. And Roger felt acceleration cursing through his veins. He looked across the net, at the most important person in his life (with his children, of course), and he smiled at him. Rafa had his look of complete focus but Roger saw the tiniest hint of a smile. Roger looked down at the ball he was bouncing on his left hand where a platinum band shone from his fourth finger. Two intertwined Rs engraved on the inside.  

He was happy.

Roger Federer didn’t hate anything in life. Not jellyfish. Not Rafa from afar. Because, you see, he never ever was.  

_So far, we are, so close._

**Author's Note:**

> *Rafaito: is the diminutive for Rafael. Using "ito/ita" at the end of names is very common in Spanish to express endearment and they are very often used with children. 
> 
> So, what do you think?  
> I hope maybe it helps a bit with the USO funk.  
> And let's all hope for a speedy recovery for Rafa and for Roge to defend his indoor points. Damn, Nole, stay at number 3!


End file.
